She saw by the evening papers that the operation on Marraville was to take
place the next day. That night she slept but little. When her maid roused
her from the slumber that came long after the sun was up, she immediately
called for the morning papers. In her heart she was hoping, almost praying
that they would report the death of James Marraville during the night.
Then, as she read with burning eyes, she found herself hoping against hope
that the old man would, at the last moment, refuse to undergo the
operation, or that some member of his family would protest. But even as
she hoped, she knew that there would be no objection on the part of either
Marraville or his children. He was an old man, he was fatally ill, he was
through with life. There would be no obstacle placed in the way of Death.
His time had come and there was no one to ask for a respite. He would die
under the knife and every one would be convinced that it was for the best.
As she sat up in bed, staring before her with bleak, unseeing eyes, she
had an inward vision of this rich man's family counting in advance the
profits of the day's business! Braden Thorpe was to be the only victim. He
was to be the one to suffer. Two big tears grew in her eyes and rolled
down her cheeks. She had never loved Braden Thorpe as she loved him now.
She knew that he was moved by honest intentions. That he confidently
believed he could preserve this man's life she would not for an instant
doubt. But why had he agreed to undertake the feat that other men had
declared was useless, the work that other men had said to be absolutely
unnecessary? A faint ray of comfort rested on the possibility that these
great surgeons, appreciating, the wide-spread interest that naturally
would attend the fate of so great a man as James Marraville, were loth to
face certain failure, but even that comfort was destroyed by an
intelligence that argued for these surgeons instead of against them. They
had said that the case was hopeless. They were honest men. They had the
courage to say: "This man must die. It is God's work, not ours," and had
turned away. They were big men; they would not operate just for the sake
of operating. And when they admitted that it was useless they were
convincing the world that they were honourable men. Therefore,—she almost
ground her pretty teeth at the thought of it,—old Marraville and his
family had turned to Braden Thorpe as one without honour or conscience!
She had never been entirely free from the notion that her husband's death
was the result of premeditated action on the part of his grandson, but in
that instance there was more than professional zeal in the heart of the
surgeon: there was love and pity and gentleness in the heart of Braden
Thorpe when he obeyed the command of the dying man. If he were to come to
her now, or at any time, with the confession that he had deliberately
ended the suffering of the man he loved, she would have put her hand in
his and looked him in the eye while she spoke her words of commendation.
Templeton Thorpe had the right to appeal to him in his hour of
hopelessness, but this other man—this mighty Marraville!—what right had he
to demand the sacrifice? She had witnessed the suffering of Templeton
Thorpe, she had prayed for death to relieve him; he had called upon her to
be merciful, and she had denied him. She wondered if James Marraville had
turned to those nearest and dearest to him with the cry for mercy. She
wondered if the little pellets had been left at his bedside. She knew the
extent of his agony, and yet she had no pity for him. He was not asking
for mercy at the hands of a man who loved him and who could not deny him.
He was demanding something for which he was willing to pay, not with love
and gratitude, but with money. Would he look up into Braden's eyes and
say, "God bless you," when the end was at hand?
Moved by a sudden irresistible impulse she flung reserve aside and decided
to make an appeal to Braden. She would go to him and plead with him to
spare himself instead of this rich old man. She would go down on her knees
to him, she would humble and humiliate herself, she would cry out her
unwanted love to him....
At nine o'clock she was at his office. He was gone for the day, the little
placard on the door informed her. Gone for the day! In her desperation she
called Simmy Dodge on the telephone. He would tell her what to do. But
Simmy's man told her that his master had just gone away in the motor with
Dr. Thorpe,—for a long ride into the country. Scarcely knowing what she
did she hurried on to Lutie's apartment, far uptown.
"What on earth is the matter, Anne?" cried the gay little wife as her
sister-in-law stalked into the tiny drawing-room and threw herself
dejectedly upon a couch. Lutie was properly alarmed and sympathetic.
It was what Anne needed. She unburdened herself.
"But," said Lutie cheerfully, "supposing he should save the old codger's
life, what then? Why do you look at the black side of the thing? While
there's life, there's hope. You don't imagine for an instant that Dr.
Thorpe is going into this big job with an idea of losing his patient, do
you?"
Anne's eyes brightened. A wave of relief surged into her heart.
"Oh, Lutie, Lutie, do you really believe that Braden thinks he can save
him?"
Lutie's eyes opened very wide. "What in heaven's name are you saying? You
don't suppose he's thinking of anything else, do you?" A queer, sinking
sensation assailed her suddenly. She remembered. She knew what was in
Anne's mind. "Oh, I see! You—" she checked the words in time. An instant
later her ready tongue saved the situation. "You don't seem to understand
what a golden opportunity this is for Braden. Here is a case that every
newspaper in the country is talking about. It's the chance of a lifetime.
He'll do his best, let me tell you that. If Mr. Marraville dies, it won't
be Braden's fault. You see, he's just beginning to build up a practice.
He's had a few unimportant cases and he's—well, he's just beginning to
realise that pluck and perseverance will do 'most anything for a fellow.
Now, here comes James Marraville, willing to take a chance with
him—because it's the only chance left, I'll admit,—and you can bet your
last dollar, Anne, that Braden isn't going to make a philanthropic job of
it."
"But if he fails, Lutie,—if he fails don't you see what the papers will
say? They will crush him to—"
"Why should they? Bigger men than he have failed, haven't they?"
"But it will ruin Braden forever. It will be the end of all his hopes, all
his ambitions. _This_ will convict him as no other—"
"Now, don't get excited, dear," cautioned the other gently. "You're
working yourself into an awful state. I think I understand, Anne. You poor
old girl!"
"I want you to know, Lutie. I want some one to know what he is to me, in
spite of everything."
Then Lutie sat down beside her and, after deliberately pulling the pins
from her visitor's hat, tossed it aimlessly in the direction of a near-by
chair,—failing to hit it by several feet,—and drew the smooth, troubled
head down upon her shoulder.
"Stay and have luncheon with George and me," she said, after a half hour
of confidences. "It will do you good. I'll not breathe a word of what
you've said to me,—not even to old George. He's getting so nervous
nowadays that he comes home to lunch and telephones three or four times a
day. It's an awful strain on him. He doesn't eat a thing, poor dear. I'm
really quite worried about him. Take a little snooze here on the sofa,
Anne. You must be worn out. I'll cover you up—"
The door-bell rang.
Lutie started and her jaw fell. "Good gracious! That's—that's Dr. Thorpe
now. He is the only one who comes up without being announced from
downstairs. Oh, dear! What shall I—Don't you think you'd better see him,
Anne?"
Anne had arisen. A warm flush had come into her pale cheeks. She was
breathing quickly and her eyes were bright.
"I will see him, Lutie. Would you mind leaving us alone together for a
while? I must make sure of one thing. Then I'll be satisfied."
Lutie regarded her keenly for a moment. "Just remember that you can't
afford to make a fool of yourself," she said curtly, and went to the door.
A most extraordinary thought entered Anne's mind, a distinct thought among
many that were confused: Lutie ought to have a parlour-maid, and she would
make it her business to see that she had one at once. Poor, plucky little
thing! And then the door was opened and Thorpe walked into the room.
"Well, how are we this morning?" he inquired cheerily, clasping Lutie's
hand. "Fine, I see. I happened to be passing with Simmy and thought I'd
run in and see—" His gaze fell upon the tall, motionless figure on the
opposite side of the room, and the words died on his lips.
"It's Anne," said Lutie fatuously.
For a moment there was not a sound or a movement in the little room. The
man was staring over Lutie's head at the slim, elegant figure in the
modish spring gown,—it was something smart and trig, he knew, and it was
not black. Then he advanced with his hand extended.
"I am glad to see you back, Anne. I heard you had returned." Their hands
met in a brief clasp. His face was grave, and a queer pallor had taken the
place of the warm glow of an instant before.
"Three days ago," she said, and that was all. Her throat was tight and
dry. He had not taken his eyes from hers. She felt them burning into her
own, and somehow it hurt,—she knew not why.
"Well, it's good to see you," he mumbled, finding no other words. He
pulled himself together with an effort. He had not expected to see her
here. He had dreamed of her during the night just past. "Simmy is waiting
down below in the car. I just dropped in for a moment. Can't keep him
waiting, Lutie, so I'll—"
"Won't you spare me a few moments, Braden?" said Anne steadily. "There is
something that I must say to you. To-morrow will not do. It must be now."
He looked concerned. "Has anything serious—"
"Nothing—yet," she broke in, anticipating his question.
"Sit down, Braden," said Lutie cheerfully. "I'll make myself scarce. I see
you are down for a big job to-day. Good boy! I told you they'd come your
way if you waited long enough. It is a big job, isn't it?"
"Ra-_ther_," said he, smiling. "I daresay it will make or break me."
"I should think you'd be frightfully nervous."
"Well, I'm not, strange to say. On the contrary, I'm as fit as a fiddle."
"When do you—perform this operation?" Anne asked, as Lutie left the room.
"This afternoon. He has a superstition about it. Doesn't want it done
until after banking hours. Queerest idea I've ever known." He spoke in
quick, jerky sentences.
She held her breath for an instant, and then cried out imploringly: "I
don't want you to do it, Braden,—I don't want you to do it. If not for my
sake, then for your own you must refuse to go on with it."
He looked straight into her troubled, frightened eyes. "I suppose you are
like the rest of them: you think I'm going to kill him, eh?" His voice was
low and bitter.
She winced, half closing her eyes as if a blow had been aimed at them.
"Oh, don't say that! How horrible it sounds when you—_speak it_."
He could see that she was trembling, and suddenly experienced an odd
feeling of contentment. He had seen it in her eyes once more: the love
that had never faltered although dragged in the dirt, discredited and
betrayed. She still loved him, and he was glad to know it. He could gloat
over it.
"I am not afraid to speak it, as you say," he said curtly. Then he pitied
her. "I'm sorry, Anne. I shouldn't have said it. I think I understand what
you mean. It's good of you to care. But I am going ahead with it, just the
same." His jaw was set in the old, resolute way.
"Do you know what they will say if you—fail?" Her voice was husky.
"Yes, I know. I also know why they finally came to me. They haven't any
hope. They believe that I may—well, at least I will not say _that_, Anne.
Down in their hearts they all hope,—but it isn't the kind of hope that
usually precedes an operation. No one has dared to suggest to me that I
put him out of his misery, but that's what they're expecting,—all of them.
But they are going to be disappointed. I do not owe anything to James
Marraville. He is nothing to me. I do not love him as I loved my
grandfather."
He spoke slowly, with grave deliberation; there was not the slightest
doubt that he intended her to accept this veiled explanation of his
present attitude as a confession that he had taken his grandfather's life.
She was silent. She understood. He went on, more hurriedly:
"I can only say to you, Anne, that my grandfather might have gone on
living for a few weeks or even months. Well, there is no reason why
Marraville shouldn't go on living for awhile. Do you see what I mean? He
shall not die to-day if I can help it. He will hang on for weeks, not
permanently relieved but at least comforted in the belief that his case
isn't hopeless. I shall do my best." He smiled sardonically. "The
operation will be called a success, and he will merely go on dying instead
of having it all over with."
She closed her eyes. "Oh, how cruel it is," she murmured. "How cruel it
is, after all."
"He will curse me for failing to do my duty," said he grimly. "The world
will probably say that I am a benefactor to the human race, after all, and
I will be called a great man because I allow him a few more weeks of
agony. I may fail, of course. He may not survive the day. But no one will
be justified in saying that I did not do my best to tide him over for a
few weeks or months. And what a travesty it will be if I do succeed! Every
one except James Marraville will praise me to the skies. My job will be
done, but he will have it all to do over again,—this business of dying."
She held out her hand. Her eyes had filled with tears.
"God be with you, Braden." He took her hand in his, and for a moment
looked into the swimming eyes.
"You understand _everything_ now, don't you, Anne?" he inquired. His face
was very white and serious. He released her hand.
"Yes," she answered; "I understand everything. I am glad that you have
told me. It—it makes no difference; I want you to understand that,
Braden."
It seemed to her that he would never speak. He was regarding her
thoughtfully, evidently weighing his next words with great care.
"Three doctors know," he said at last. "They must never find out that you
know."
Her eyes flashed through the tears. "I am not afraid to have the world
know," she said quickly.
He shook his head, smiling sadly.
"But I am," he said. It was a long time before she grasped the full
significance of this surprising admission. When, hours afterward, she came
to realise all that it meant she knew that he was not thinking of himself
when he said that he was afraid. He was thinking of her; he had thought of
her from the first. Now she could only look puzzled and incredulous. It
was not like him to be afraid of consequences.
"If you are afraid," she demanded quickly, "why do you invite peril this
afternoon? The chances are against you, Braden. Give it up. Tell them you
cannot—"
"This afternoon?" he broke in, rather violently. "Good God, Anne, I'm not
afraid of what is going to happen this afternoon. Marraville isn't going
to die to-day, poor wretch. I can't afford to let him die." He almost
snarled the words. "I have told these people that if I fail to take him
through this business to-day, I'll accept no pay. That is understood. The
newspapers will be so informed in case of failure. You are shocked. Well,
it isn't as bad as it sounds. I am in deadly earnest in this matter. It is
my one great chance. It means more to me to save James Marraville's life
than it means to him. I'm sorry for him, but he has to go on living, just
the same. Thank you for being interested. Don't worry about it. I—"
"The evening papers will tell me how it turns out," she said dully. "I
shall pray for you, Braden."
He turned on her savagely. "Don't do that!" he almost shouted. "I don't
want your support. I—" Other words surged to his lips but he held them
back. She drew back as if he had struck her a blow in the face. "I—I beg
your pardon," he muttered, and then strode across the room to thump
violently on the door to Lutie's bed-chamber. "Come out! I'm going. Can't
keep the nation waiting, you know."
Two minutes later Anne and Lutie were alone. The former, inwardly shaken
despite an outward appearance of composure, declined to remain for
luncheon, as she had done the day before. Her interest in Lutie and her
affairs was lost in the contemplation of a reviving sense of self-
gratification, long dormant but never quite unconscious. She had recovered
almost instantly from the shock produced by his violent command, and where
dismay had been there was now a warm, grateful rush of exultation. She
suspected the meaning of that sudden, fierce lapse into rudeness. Her
heart throbbed painfully, but with joyous relief. It was not rudeness on
his part; on the contrary he was paying tribute to her. He was dismayed by
the feelings he found himself unable to conquer. The outburst was the
result of a swift realisation that she still had the power to move him in
spite of all his mighty resolves, in spite even of the contempt he had for
her.
She walked to the Ritz. It was a long distance from George's home, but she
went about it gladly in preference to the hurried, pent-up journey down by
taxi or stage. She wanted to be free and unhampered. She wanted to think,
to analyse, to speculate on what would happen next. For the present she
was content to glory in the fact that he had unwittingly betrayed himself.
She was near the Plaza before the one great, insurmountable obstacle arose
in her mind to confound her joyous calculations. What would it all come
to, after all? She could never be more to him than she was at this
instant, for between them lay the truth about the death of Templeton
Thorpe,—and Templeton Thorpe was her husband. Her exaltation was short-
lived. The joy went out of her soul. The future looked to be even more
barren than before the kindly hope sprang up to wave its golden prospects
before her deluded eyes.
He would never look at the situation from her point of view. Even though
he found himself powerless to resist the love that was regaining strength
enough to batter down the wall of prejudice her marriage had created in
his mind, there would still stand between them his conviction that it
would be an act of vileness to claim or even covet the wife of the man
whose life he had taken, not in anger or reprisal but in honest devotion.
Anne was not callous or unfeeling in her readiness to disregard what he
might be expected to call the ethics of the case. She very sensibly looked
at the question as one in which the conscience had no part, for the simple
reason that there was no guilty motive to harass it. If his conscience was
clear,—and it most certainly was,—there could be no sound reason for him
to deny himself the right to reclaim that which belonged to him by all the
laws of nature. On her part there was not the slightest feeling of
revulsion. She did not look upon his act as a barrier. Her own act in
betraying him was far more of a barrier than this simple thing that he had
done. She had believed it to be insurmountable. She had long ago accepted
as final the belief that he despised her and would go on doing so to the
end. And now, in the last hour, there had been a revelation. He still
loved her. His scorn, his contempt, his disgust were not equal to the task
of subduing the emotion that lived in spite of all of them. But this other
thing! This thing that he would call _decency_!
All through the afternoon his savage, discordant cry: "Don't do that!"
rang in her ears. She thrilled and crumpled in turn. The blood ran hot
once more in her veins. As she looked back over the past year it seemed to
her that her blood had been cold and sluggish. But now it was warm again
and tingling. Even the desolating thought that her discovery would yield
no profit failed to check the riotous, grateful warmth that raced through
her body from crown to toe. Despair had its innings, but there was always
compensation in the return of a joy that would not acknowledge itself
beaten. Joy enough to feel that he could not help loving her! Joy to feel
that he was hungry too! No matter what happened now she would know that
she had not lost all of him.
After a while she found herself actually enjoying the prospect of certain
failure on Braden's part in the case of Marraville. Reviled and excoriated
beyond endurance, he would take refuge in the haven that she alone could
open to him. He would come to her and she would go with him, freely and
gladly, into new places where he could start all over again and—But even
as she conjured up this sacrificial picture, this false plaisance, her
cheeks grew hot with shame. The real good that was in Anne Tresslyn leaped
into revolt. She hated herself for the thought; she could have cursed
herself. What manner of love was this that could think of self alone? What
of him? What of the man she loved?
She denied herself to callers. At half-past five she called up the
hospital and inquired how Mr. Marraville was getting along. She had a
horrid feeling that the voice at the other end would say that he was dead.
She found a vast relief in the polite but customary "doing very nicely"
reply that came languidly over the wires. Anne was not by way of knowing
that the telephone operators in the hospitals would say very cheerfully
that "Mr. Washington is doing very nicely," if one were to call up to
inquire into the condition of the Father of his Country! An "extra" at six
o'clock announced that the operation had taken place and that Mr.
Marraville had survived it, although it was too soon to,—and so on and so
forth.
Then she called Simmy Dodge up on the telephone. Simmy would know if
anybody knew. And with her customary cleverness and foresightedness she
called him up at the hospital.
After a long delay Simmy's cheery voice came singing—or rather it was
barking—into her ear. This had been the greatest day in the life of Simeon
Dodge. From early morn he had gone about in a state of optimistic unrest.
He was more excited than he had ever been in his life before,—and yet he
was beatifically serene. His brow was unclouded, his eyes sparkled and his
voice rang with all the confidence of extreme felicity. There was no
question in Simmy's mind as to the outcome. Braden would pull the old
gentleman through, sure as anything. Absolutely sure, that's what Simmy
was, and he told other people so.
"Fine as silk!" he shouted back in answer to Anne's low, suppressed
inquiry. "Never anything like it, Anne, old girl. One of the young doctors
told me—"
"Has he come out of the ether, Simmy?"
"What say?"
"Is he conscious? Has the ether—"
"I can't say as to that," said Simmy cheerfully. "He's been back in his
room since five o'clock. That's—let's see what time is it now? Six-
fourteen. Nearly an hour and a quarter. They all say—"
"Have you see Braden?"
"Sure. He's fagged out, poor chap. Strain something awful. Good Lord, I
wonder what it must have been to him when it came so precious near to
putting me out of business. I thought I was dying at half-past four. I
never expected to live to see Mr. Marraville out of the operating-room.
Had to take something for medicinal purposes. I knew all along that Braden
could do the job like a—"
"Where is he now?"
"Last I heard of him he was back in his room with the house doctor and—"
"I mean Braden."
"What are you sore about, Anne?" complained Simmy. Her voice had sounded
rather querulous to him. "I thought you meant the patient. Brady is up
there, too, I guess. Sh! I can't say anything more. A lot of reporters,
are coming this way."
The morning papers announced that James Marraville had passed a
comfortable night and that not only Dr. Thorpe but other physicians who
were attending him expressed the confident opinion that if he continued to
gain throughout the day and if nothing unforeseen occurred there was no
reason why he should not recover. He had rallied from the anæsthetic, his
heart was good, and there was no temperature. Members of the family were
extremely hopeful. His two sons-in-law—who were spokesmen for the other
members of the family—were united in the opinion that Dr. Thorpe had
performed a miracle. Dr. Thorpe, himself, declined to be interviewed. He
referred the newspaper men to the other surgeons and physicians who were
interested in the case.
There was an underlying note of dismay, rather deftly obscured, in all of
the newspaper accounts, however. Not one of them appeared to have
recovered from the surprise that had thrown all of their plans out of
order. They had counted on James Marraville's death and had prepared
themselves accordingly. There were leading editorials in every office, and
columns of obituary matter; and there were far from vague allusions to the
young doctor who performed the operation. And here was the man alive! It
was really more shocking than if he had died, as he was expected to do. It
is no wonder, therefore, that the first accounts were almost entirely
without mention of the doctor who had upset all of their calculations. He
hadn't lived up to the requirements. The worst of it all was that Mr.
Marraville's failure to expire on the operating table forever deprived
them of the privilege of saying, invidiously, that young Doctor Thorpe had
been called in as the last resort. It would take them a day or two, no
doubt, to adjust themselves to the new situation, and then, if the
millionaire was still showing signs of surviving, they would burst forth
into praise of the marvellous young surgeon who had startled the entire
world by his performance!
In the meantime, there was still a chance that Mr. Marraville might die,
so it was better to hesitate and be on the safe side.